


Dust of Snow

by Neurotoxia



Series: Nights of Christmas Past [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Chess, Christmas, Drug Use, Family Dinner, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Introspection, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Canon, Shopping, Teen Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:31:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Substitute family with friends, and the axiom of his Christmas hypothesis needs reassessment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust of Snow

**Author's Note:**

> The usual thank you goes to [penombrelilas](http://penombrelilas.livejournal.com/) for beating this fic into submission with the beta stick and to [Swissmarg](http://swissmarg.livejournal.com/) who gave additional insight and eliminated the spelling, grammar and punctuation mistakes. 
> 
> Finally, we have reached the end of the series! It was started before Christmas but as I write at a snail's pace, it took me until late April to finish this. Lucky for me and you readers, Christmas is only the background theme and not the focus, so it's still enjoyable even in spring. 
> 
> Written as either Gen or Pre-Slash, you are free to interpret it however you want. Comments are always appreciated!

# I.

* * *

  
When Sherlock wanted to think, silence was welcome. When he was at his mother’s home, silence was often present but uncomfortable. 

Sherlock failed to see why his mother still insisted on a traditional Christmas dinner with the relatives. Christmas was tedious and unnecessary, the relatives stupid and the atmosphere so forcibly light and cheerful that he would snicker if it weren't happening to him. 

He sat in front of the fireplace and nibbled on a biscuit while reading a university-grade chemistry book. Sherlock liked chemistry -- at least when it challenged him. What they did in class at school was hardly worth his time. 

Mycroft sat in the other armchair near the fireplace, playing a game of chess with himself. He and Sherlock used to play together until a few years back. That was before their father had left the family. His brother was still angry at Sherlock for that. Sherlock thought Mycroft was being ridiculous; it had been five years. 

Two cousins passed by the door, talking about a recent murder in the next town. As everyone else, his cousins were prone to idiocy and gossip and thus came up with outlandish theories, such as the wife being the culprit. Sherlock rolled his eyes and fidgeted -- it was so obviously wrong! The bookmaker had killed the man; Sherlock had deduced it from looking at the pictures in the newspaper and yet the police were still clueless. Idiots, all of them. 

“Don’t even think about telling them how wrong and stupid they are, Sherlock,” Mycroft said out of the blue without looking up from the chess board.

“Piss off,” Sherlock hissed and turned the page with enough force to tear it.

“You are to keep your deductions to yourself when at home, as you’re well aware.”

“Will you please go back to ignoring me?” Sherlock sighed with an air of exasperation and refused to look at his glaring brother. No, they really weren’t on the best of terms. And every time they met, it became a little worse.

He should have stayed at Eton. Over the holidays, he would have been mostly alone there, without all the insufferable idiots. His mother never would have let him, though; she insisted he come home during the holidays. Sherlock used to like it much better at home than at school -- he didn’t get along with the other boys at Eton. He didn’t like them and they didn’t like him. In all the years he hadn’t made a single real friend. A few years ago, Sherlock had decided he wouldn’t bother trying to make friends anymore. Some tried to be nice to him for a while, likely hoping to get to copy Sherlock’s homework, but when they found out that Sherlock barely ever did any homework that was on the class curriculum, they gave up rather fast. Sherlock couldn’t wait to finish school next year. It was a hellhole. At least no one bothered him physically anymore since he had broken a bully’s arm and knocked him out two years ago. A blue belt in Judo was useful to have. 

Mycroft was still looking at him though, damnit.

“Sherlock, I didn’t implement the ‘no deductions’ rule, so will you stop blaming me just because it’s convenient?” His brother was frowning at him, face a little slack. Mycroft had lost nearly two stones since Sherlock had last seen him; rapidly -- if his face was any indication. He had lost weight faster than his skin could adapt. New diet then.

Sherlock shoved a biscuit in his mouth just to see Mycroft squirm. “You agree with the rule, so I don’t see why I should spare you.”

“It does make life easier. You have to admit it’s a lot less hassle when you don’t cause family scandals.” Mycroft’s tone had grown colder and harsh, a signal that he was agitated.

“Ah, of course you couldn’t let a holiday pass without making some comment about it. This whole family loves to repeat themselves over and over,” Sherlock spat. He would have stormed out of the room if it hadn’t meant letting Mycroft win the argument.

When he was twelve he had exposed their father’s affair with a family friend’s wife -- during a garden party with at least twenty people present. It had taken fewer than twenty-four hours before their entire social circle was informed through the gossip channels. Sherlock had been angry with his father for being unfaithful. He had hated to think of Mummy at the receiving end of such injustice. 

His efforts had not been appreciated. In fact, his whole family was furious. But since Sherlock had made sure with his public confrontation something would have to be done, his parents had split up and divorced. Father had packed and left never to contact them again. Mycroft had been crushed. He had practically worshipped their father and had lived for his approval. People had started to look at Mycroft differently because he was the spitting image of him, a fact which became more obvious the older Mycroft became.

Sherlock had been confused to find that Mummy wasn’t surprised or shocked when Sherlock had shared his deductions -- she had been aware of the whole thing and had kept quiet for the family name’s sake. One didn’t divorce in the Holmes family: it was unthinkable. If staying with Father wouldn’t have caused even more of a ruckus, she would have just swept it all under the rug and ignored it. Theirs hadn’t been a marriage of love anyway. Sherlock refused to understand it, couldn’t follow the twisted logic of their parents’ social circles.

Mycroft looked as if he had bitten into a lemon, twisting a pawn between his fingers. _Sign of discomfort. He hadn’t planned to bring it up._ Sherlock’s mouth narrowed into a fine line and he snapped his book shut. Mycroft was still looking at him.

“José Capablanca?” Sherlock asked after a cursory glance across the board. Recreating the games of the greatest grandmasters of chess was a hobby of his brother’s. Sherlock had played him often enough to recognise the styles of some of the greatest in history. And Capablanca was one of Mycroft’s favourites. 

“Well spotted,” Mycroft agreed, placing the pawn back on the table.

For some reason, Sherlock’s mind conjured up a memory of Christmas when he was eight or nine: he and Mycroft sitting in the same room with Grandfather’s chessboard, playing against each other. Sherlock had won two games that evening -- he was reasonably sure now that Mycroft had let him win at least one of them -- and he had been very proud to beat his older brother at his favourite game. That year, Christmas had been bearable, actually.

“Black could be checkmated within eight -- no, nine moves,” Sherlock said and steepled his hands under his chin.

Mycroft’s eyes swept over the board. Sherlock could almost see the gears in his brain work. “It seems you could be right,” he conceded.

“Of course I’m right.“ Sherlock smirked and got up. “Really, Mycroft, I thought you were supposed to be good at this.”

“Try and defeat me, by all means.”

“My pleasure,” Sherlock said and plopped down in the armchair across from Mycroft with a smug smile.

# II.

* * *

  
Sherlock loosened the rubber tourniquet from his left arm, let the limb fall to the side with a loud thump and stared at the ceiling of his damp, rundown flat. The rush of cocaine ran through his veins, up his arm and finally hit his brain: Sherlock felt the drug enhance monoamine neurotransmitter activity in the central and peripheral nervous systems, binding to and blocking the dopamine transporter protein to let dopamine accumulate into euphoria in the synaptic cleft.

The world narrowed down and slowed to pinpoint the contents of his mind palace, a memory technique he had learned from Mycroft --the pompous bastard-- but had never found a suitable replacement for. Hard drives needed defragmentation, reorganisation and deletion, shelves needed dusting off and their contents reevaluation.

Name of current Prime Minister: Tony Blair -- unimportant, delete

Largest river in Africa: Nile -- irrelevant to crime, move to bin

Boiling point of formaldehyde: -19°C -- possibly useful, store in laboratory

Weight gain of Mycroft since November 12: 6.6 pounds -- not relevant, keep in Mycroft’s room for special occasions

Sherlock continued staring at his ceiling with glassy eyes and ringing ears, now and again storing old and new incriminating or glee-providing details on the older brother who just wouldn’t leave him alone.

He had stopped by the flat earlier, planning to pick up Sherlock for Christmas dinner with Mummy. Mycroft hadn’t needed deductive abilities to determine that Sherlock was only halfway dressed, had lost a bit more weight and not bothered to shower or shave for a few days. Yet he had stated the obvious, likely just so he could say it with his usual condescension.

 _You’re in no state to attend dinner_ , he had said in a voice pitched to make everyone else feel lower than the dirt on the hem of Mycroft’s trousers. 

_Noted, now kindly fuck off, Mycroft_ , Sherlock had hissed back, incorporating the vulgar language just to infuriate his brother.

Mycroft had left then, closing the door loud enough to count as slamming for him which left Sherlock satisfied. Things had got worse between them, if possible. Months back, Mycroft had finally clued their mother in about Sherlock’s habits, and she subsequently had him cut off from the family money altogether -- of course with the help of his meddling brother.

If Mycroft had hoped it would make him go into rehab, he was gravely mistaken. Sherlock didn’t have to rely on the family money as long as he cut back on more unimportant things such as food, clothing or rent. He could easily make a few quid on the side by uncovering an adulterous husband or employee stealing his boss’ money. And when cases became too rare, he was always able to cook a little something up with his chemistry set to sell on a corner in Haringey or Lambeth. He needed to be careful with that, though. If Mycroft caught wind of Sherlock stocking up too often on chemicals like phenylacetone, phosphorus or pseudoephedrine, he would likely not hesitate to lock his younger brother up himself.

Slowly, the immediate effect of the drug wore off, his focus became wider again, more details flooded his brain in a barely controlled manner. He was still exceptionally alert, his thoughts running a mile a minute. Sherlock put an arm over his eyes and groaned; the onslaught of information after a high was unpleasant. Maybe he should stay like this for the rest of the night and try to defragment his hard drive a bit more -- it seemed appealing enough. Yet he was restless, felt the need to move around, run even. No, he needed to sort information. Sherlock tried to refocus the energy urging him to pace about in his mind palace. His brain needed fuel, not his bloody limbs.

A few minutes later the doctored radio he used to listen in on the police frequency crackled with a voice requesting assistance at a crime scene in Canary Wharf: possible homicide, circumstances unclear, forensics required.

Sherlock lifted the arm from his face and listened carefully to identify the person on the radio. It sounded like one of the new recruits to Lestrade’s team. Perfect. Suddenly rejuvenated, Sherlock sprang up from the settee and grabbed his coat. A mysterious homicide sounded more like his idea of fun than an uncomfortable dinner with two people who only wanted him present to keep up appearances.

# III.

* * *

  
London was a nightmare around Christmas. The sheer number of people was dreadful. Sherlock Holmes stood on Brompton Road near Harrods and wished for a revolver. Whether to shoot himself with it or those around him, he wasn’t sure yet. Either choice seemed to have its merits.

London’s bustling activity normally stimulated his brain but today it was overkill. Too many people. Too many idiots, to be precise. A hysterical woman laden with shopping bags had just bumped into him and yelled at him for being in her way.

Mid-forties, four -- no, five plastic surgeries over the last eighteen months, two dogs -- Shih Tzu --, expensive clothing out of her price range, afraid her husband might leave her for a younger woman.

Sherlock only answered with a scathing remark that if she wanted to keep her husband, she should put a little more thought into his gift and possibly stop sleeping with her tax accountant. The woman had just stared at him while Sherlock moved towards the shop.

He decided then and there that Christmas shopping was hell. John had taken him out shopping yesterday, and it hadn’t ended well. He had yelled at a Father Christmas, declared his boredom and wished for a nice murder for Christmas. The nearby family had felt threatened and called the police. Christmas shopping had ended a bit early and John had insisted on being irritated the whole evening. 

But Sherlock still needed gifts for John and Mrs Hudson, which was a novelty. He could hardly recall the last time he had given out presents for Christmas. It had likely been in his childhood, but it was useless information and had therefore been deleted long ago. At least he already had an idea what to give to Mrs Hudson: she had mentioned a few times that she liked cashmere scarves, but never bought one because they were too expensive. The only one she had ever owned had been thrown out because it was a gift from her ex-husband. A nice scarf was something he could get at Harrods, although he dreaded the mass of people squeezing inside.

Crowded was an understatement, and the massive amount of decoration and lights nearly gave Sherlock a headache. He didn’t understand the purpose of the compulsive decorating that entailed Christmas -- it was mostly tacky and, above all, useless.

He snuck his way through to the section that carried scarves, only to find himself unable to get to the display due to all the other shoppers. Irritated, Sherlock sighed and narrowed his eyes at the crowd, trying to find the weakest link. He found it quickly and put a hand on a man’s shoulder.

“Excuse me, but if you’re done trying to impress your mother-in-law by choosing gifts you’re planning to return anyway once you’ve taken her home -- you can’t afford it but try to cover it up in front of her -- then would you make some space for the people who actually plan on buying something?” Sherlock smiled coldly and carried on: “If you cut back on the gambling -- Black Jack, is it? -- you might be able to afford these in two or three years. Good day.”

With that, he shoved the man, turned beet-red now after the initial shock, out of the way while the mother-in-law gaped at both of them. A few other shoppers stole curious glances, but Sherlock ignored them all and turned to the wide selection of cashmere scarves in front of him. He should avoid the color cerise, Mrs Hudson thought it drained her. Also, Sherlock might have been watching a few too many Connie Prince reruns on television while being bored. The information on color schemes proved hard to delete.

After he had selected a scarf he deemed suitable, he went to stand in line at the closest register, where he killed the time deducing and insulting other customers.

Porn-addict. Suicidal business woman with father-complex. Closet homosexual. Alcoholic who missed three AA meetings. Steals money from her boss. Two years in prison for forgery.

The speakers overhead distributed the typical children’s choir-filled holiday songs. Sherlock wanted to shudder at how imprecise the violin on this particular piece was played. A trained monkey could do better. The woman stealing from her boss before him was chattering inanely on the phone, ranting about a colleague loud enough that Sherlock could deduce the person on the other end of the line as well: _Two years younger than the thief, colleague, dislikes her conversation partner but tolerates her because she is well-connected in the firm -- shopfitting business most likely._ Sherlock wanted to text John and complain about his situation, but he couldn’t or John would know he was out shopping. Dull. Maybe Lestrade, then.  


> To: Lestrade -- 23/12 14:26  
> Any interesting murders in or around Harrods recently? SH  
> 

  


> To: Sherlock Holmes -- 23/12 14:29  
> No. Why?  
> 

  


> To: Lestrade -- 23/12 14:30  
> Looking for something to do while queuing. SH  
> 

  


> To: Sherlock Holmes -- 23/12 14:33  
> Just wait like the rest of us mortals.  
> 

  


> To: Sherlock Holmes -- 23/12 14:34  
> And DON’T murder anyone.  
> 

  
Well, if Lestrade chose to be boring, he would let him. Until it was his turn to pay, he read a new article on liver decomposition on his phone and even managed not to insult the cashier. John would be proud.

John. What to get John? Sherlock found it obscenely difficult to pick a gift for John. He had already thought about it without conclusive results: a nice jumper to replace one of the hideous ones? Dull. New medical supplies? Boring. Books? Even more boring. John probably expected something that was practical, efficient, entirely unsentimental and he would still appreciate it because Sherlock had bothered with a social convention. From his friends and family, John would most likely receive a lot of practical, impersonal presents: He was a modest man who was easy to approach but hard to get close to. Few really knew John -- Sherlock was one of them. Practical wasn’t going to cut it. He _wanted_ to give John a present and he wanted him to be surprised by it, to like it. _Because_ Sherlock didn’t care about social conventions, it had to stand out. A practical gift would be easy and predictable and Sherlock hated easy and predictable. How about a course to teach him proper typewriting? No, that was merely useful and possibly offensive. John didn’t like being called on his slow typing. This was frustrating. 

“Excuse me, sir?” came a voice from the right. Sherlock looked up to see a member of staff, next to him the man from the scarf display and his mother-in-law. He raised an eyebrow, already having an idea of what was to come.

“This gentleman complained about you verbally harassing him and I’d like to clear the situation up,” the employee explained. He was tall, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, silk tie and polished shoes -- Sherlock amassed ammunition about him before the sentence had ended.

“I’m sure it doesn’t qualify as harassment when I am merely stating the truth. If the _gentleman_ prefers to be in denial, it is not my concern. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have more important matters to attend than this idiocy.” Sherlock wondered if the holidays made people even more ludicrous. 

“Sir, would you please wait?” the employee said more firmly and held Sherlock by his forearm. 

“Oh, for God’s sake -- what do you think you can achieve? Your two-year marriage is in ruins because you and your wife can’t stop fighting and now you’re trying to play the mediator? Maybe you should tell her about your need to be hurt and humiliated during intercouse to enjoy it, it might solve some of your issues! And you should also tell her to take up birth control again because you don’t want any children!” Sherlock hissed in irritation as the man went white as a sheet.

When two security guards unceremoniously shoved Sherlock out of the doors a few minutes later, he thought that for John’s present, he would need to switch over to online shopping.

# IV.

* * *

  
If John were to catch him smoking, he would give Sherlock another lecture about the hazards of nicotine, hide the cigarettes and demand Sherlock go cold turkey. Sometimes, Sherlock liked to think that John might not begrudge a dead man a cigarette. He was officially dead, after all, his name carved into a headstone in a London cemetery.

Sherlock glanced at the stack of passports crammed into his bag -- British, French, German, Swiss -- different names, identities, life stories. At the moment, French bank employee Olivier Moreau was enjoying a stay in Prague over Christmas. Sherlock Holmes didn’t find the stay very enjoyable. Moriarty’s Czech contacts proved to be particularly difficult to track down and Christmas holidays didn’t make the hunt for leads any easier.

While he stared out the window of his run-down hotel at the snowed-in silhouette of Prague, he toyed with his newly grown goatee and wondered what John was doing at the moment. Most likely, he was having dinner with his parents or sister since there weren’t many alternatives for him other than being alone. Sherlock wondered for a moment if they would have had another Christmas party this year. Last year’s party had been infinitely better than dinner with Mycroft and Mummy, so another wouldn’t have been too bad. Now he didn’t know if he would ever get to see any of the guests again.

Mrs Hudson would have gone to stay at her sister’s and Lestrade was either trying to patch up his family once more or was alone after a dinner with relatives. Sherlock knew that both of them would have preferred another party. He felt a faint twinge of guilt before he shoved it far away again.

“Sentiment,” Sherlock berated himself and threw the last of his cigarette in the ashtray. He wasn’t as good at being cooped up in his own head as he used to be -- had started to rely too much on John being around, or at least thinking he was around. Sherlock didn’t allow himself to use an inanimate object and pretend it was John. Alone protected him, so he had to harden himself -- again. John would object, if he were here. John would object to a lot of things he had been doing lately.

Sherlock pulled his laptop from the bag on the floor and settled on the narrow bed with it. Mails were sparse these days, most of them from Mycroft with information on Moriarty’s web, encrypted well enough that it took even Sherlock a few minutes or hours to decipher the contents. No leads on Prague, it seemed, since his inbox was empty. Mycroft was getting slow. His last email from three days ago had contained a note that John seemed to be doing as well as circumstances would allow. It grated on Sherlock’s nerves that he had needed to join forces with his brother and rely on him for information on John. He hadn’t gone as far as asking Mycroft for pictures yet, but he might cave in at some point. At least he wouldn’t be around to see Mycroft’s “Oh, Sherlock” face with that bit of condescension, pity, and arrogance mixed together. Sherlock would have a hard time resisting the urge to punch his brother otherwise.

Sherlock grabbed his phone and opened the Messages application, composing a text with rapid movements.

  


> To: John Watson - 25/12 20:06h  
> More snow in Prague than in London in December. You would like it, I believe. Merry Christmas. SH  
> 

  
He contemplated the button labelled Send for a few seconds before he hit Save to drafts instead. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t -- not before it was safe again. If it was ever going to be. More than that, there was no guarantee he would survive this and the thought of putting John through the same grief twice wasn’t one he liked to contemplate.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, rubbing a hand over his bearded face before letting it fall to the side. It hit the package he had received yesterday: blue with a silver bow and a small gift tag that read ‘Happy Christmas. MH’. For a moment, he had thought it was from Mycroft, wondering what his brother was doing giving out gifts. Then he had noticed the female handwriting and had made the connection: Molly, of course. She had probably asked his brother to make sure it reached Sherlock. There had been an emerald green scarf inside, obviously hand-knitted. Sherlock had turned it over and over while analysing the smell _(nutmeg, Christmas-scented candle, hand sanitiser)_ , material _(high quality wool -- 60% cotton, 30% alpaca, 10% silk)_ and technique _(twice-turned stitch, many years of practise, no dropped stitches)_. When he had thought of how much it reminded him of one of John’s less hideous jumpers, he had thrown the package aside in frustration. Was there no end to reminding him what he had left behind? 

Now that it was back in his hands, he sighed and placed it on his bag, with more care this time. Molly was just trying to be kind. The scarf would suit one of his Swiss personas well, he thought. He should send Molly a postcard from Prague. Not under his real name, of course, but Molly wasn’t a complete idiot and would get the hint. There, he had made a socially appropriate decision without John’s guidance.

His email client chimed to announce a new message: Mycroft. Hopefully, he had something useful to tell Sherlock.

  


> From: [undisclosed sender]  
> To: [undisclosed recipient]  
> Subject: Insecticide  
>  Message: The name Moran has come up twice now.  
> 

  
Sherlock muttered a few swear words at his computer. What was he supposed to do with that? He needed information on Moriarty’s money laundering facilities, not a name that might be worthless. There was an abundance of straw men in Moriarty’s network and Sherlock had already fallen for a few. Frustrated, he began to encode his reply.  


> From: [undisclosed sender]  
> To: [undisclosed recipient]  
> Subject: Re: Insecticide  
>  Message: Shouldn’t you be eating pudding somewhere?  
> 

  
He flopped down on the bed again, dragging over his laptop when it chimed once more.  


> From: [undisclosed sender]  
> To: [undisclosed recipient]  
> Subject: Re: Re: Insecticide  
>  Message: Merry Christmas  
> 

  
Sherlock snorted. Now Mycroft was really getting sentimental. Or he just wanted to taunt Sherlock since his brother couldn’t possibly believe that Sherlock was experiencing anything that justified the use of ‘merry’, holiday or not.

This wasn’t helping at all. Sherlock wanted to go home, build up a fire in the fireplace in the living room, steal Mrs Hudson’s biscuits and have a cup of tea with John. He’d even decorate the stupid Christmas tree again. Did John buy one for the flat this year? Probably not. Sherlock wasn’t even sure whether John still lived there -- he wouldn’t be able to pay the rent on his own and Sherlock doubted John had got another flatmate. Mycroft would have told him, right?

It was getting a little cold in the hotel room. Sherlock fetched the scarf and wound it around his neck. At least it would warm him up to some degree. Absent-mindedly, Sherlock traced the pattern of the knitting and scrolled through the drafts folder on his phone, trying to imagine what John would have answered if Sherlock had ever dared send the texts.

Still not understanding the fuss about the Eiffel Tower. SH  
***  
Would you fetch me a towel? SH  
***  
Honey bees can fly up to 15 miles per hour. SH  
***  
Found a lead on one of Moriarty’s men in Florence. Won’t take long, he’s an idiot. SH  
***  
Why were you so excited about Dublin again? It’s dull. SH  
***  
Can I borrow one of your ties? SH  
***  
I’m eating regularly. I thought you would be pleased to hear that. SH  
***  
German afternoon television is worse than British ‘crap telly’. SH  
***  
Trains in Germany aren’t as punctual as they make everyone believe. SH  
***  
Tracked down two people with ties to Moriarty. Do you know how to handle a parachute properly? SH  
***  
Never mind the parachute. SH  
***  
French crime dramas are predictable. It was the construction worker. SH  
***  
How could it not be the construction worker? That doesn’t make any sense! SH  
***  
Vatican cameos. SH

Christmas really was horrendous. Sherlock frowned at the screen of his phone, trying to will all thoughts of John and home away. He was so lost in his thoughts that he flinched when the text alarm chimed. A text? He never got any messages on this phone -- not anymore. It was his old number, the one that was supposed to be out of service now. Mycroft was not happy that Sherlock hadn’t abandoned it; he probably regretted giving it back to him after one of his goons had picked it up from the rooftop. Sherlock knew it was a risk but for some illogical reason, he felt it hard to let go of it. At least he only turned it on every few days. Sherlock tried to ignore the lump in his throat when he saw John’s name on the screen. Why did he send a message to Sherlock?  


>   
>  From: John Watson -- 25/12, 20:49   
>  Come back, you git. Harry and my parents are horrible company. Merry Christmas. JW   
> 

  
Swallowing was horribly difficult. Had John found out he was alive? Sherlock’s heart started to race. John would be in danger. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, too -- _no, panic is the enemy of logic. Think._ Sherlock willed himself to calm down. John wouldn’t send a seemingly random text -- and Mycroft would know if John had caught wind of his fake death. It was more likely John had had a bad dinner with his family and wished he were home, celebrating with Sherlock. Sherlock could relate to that.  


> To: John Watson  
> Vybíralova Hotel, Prague. SH  
> 

  
His finger hovered over Send. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Knitting Lives Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/591956) by [crookedspoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon)




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